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We have to hang about in the interval. ‘Ah, the tragedy. The open books she knew by heart; aye, they had been ground into her, morning and night. But she had loved the man. I can imagine nothing more pleasant in life than to help you, because I know it would pay to help you. She loved the market, the horses trotting about, the bishops forced to be on the same road with old washer-women, the fools begging for a Florin or a ducat.
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